


The Measure of a Man

by hellscabanaboy



Category: Craft Sequence - Max Gladstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellscabanaboy/pseuds/hellscabanaboy
Summary: Kopil's Craft will bring Dresediel Lex to the future, one way or another.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/gifts).



Any Quechal child knows to fear the demons that live in the dark between the stars. Spinning their vast webs beyond sight and snaring entire worlds in their hunger. Kopil had, too: had shielded his eyes from the black and cast them to the earth, even as the starlight prickled his skin and called him forth.

Now, he holds one in his hand, and smiles.

Well - a kernel of one, perhaps. A shard from the fossil of a grandchild of one of the skazzerai which stalk the realms above - if he is to imagine it fancifully, which he must, as the only text on Craft he's managed to find - imported at length from Iskar and sounded haltingly into Low Quechal, dictionary open at his side - had made no mention of an old Quechal legend.

The creature lets out a hum as it grows to full size, rows of obsidian teeth above a squat, bulbous body. It seethes, tenses - and Kopil feels the world dim at the edges as it tugs at the bonds woven of his soul. Equivalent exchange, he knows, for the changes he 's written on the world, and still sends a chill running down to his fingertips at feeling himself change in turn. But it's nothing compared to seeing what he's done put in practice. The monster keens in a voice like lightning on sand and Kopil watches as the cry argues itself out of existence, a logical loop winding back into silence. 

He's already written the contract in his own blood, the makeshift glyph he's used for his name still glistening on the page. And the vessel, as well - a fist-sized pendant etched over with glyphs, product of a month spent watching the coppersmith's boys at work and another poring over Gerhard's diagrams, until he's certain that his own will hold. Certain as can be, anyway, and beyond that there's no need to think twice. He can hardly hope to create something new, after all, without taking the first step.

"But of course," he says to the creature - which is hardly any more likely to speak Low Quechal as he is to understand its keenings - "I'd be happy to deal."

The creature hisses, burbles - but in the end it's got no choice but to take the terms, or slink back to its own dimension in whatever might be its equivalent of defeat. A black mark blooms on the page beneath Kopil's glyph, and he lets himself breathe again as he feels the contract snag at his soul, settle in place like sinew stretched over the bone of the deal. The creature winks out of existence with a final hiss, and Kopil closes his eyes and follows the line of the bond, glowing stark against the black air. 

He snaps the pendant shut, and the slim metal hands jerk to life in time with his heart.


End file.
